Boring
by chasingriver
Summary: As far as Greg knew, nobody else ever got away with calling Sherlock a 'berk'...


Beta: deklava

* * *

_Bored. -SH_

Greg smiled to himself and typed a reply into his outdated phone.

_What, I only rate when you've got nothing better on? -G_

It was almost a ritual now. Greg wasn't sure why they bothered with the preliminaries.

_Well? -SH_

_I'm at my flat. Bring something to eat. -G_

_I'm not hungry. -SH_

_It's not for you, you berk. -G_

As far as Greg knew, nobody else ever got away with calling Sherlock a 'berk'. For that matter, he was pretty sure no one else got to fuck him.

* * *

Greg wasn't quite sure what to label this _thing _they had. Sherlock had shown up on the doorstep of his flat one night after a case.

"Sherlock? What—"

Before he could finish the sentence, Sherlock brushed by him, closed the door, and pushed him up against it. He got right up in his personal space—his face inches from Greg's—and then he just _stopped_.

"Well," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I'm not going to force myself on you."

He didn't have to tell Greg twice. He kissed him, hard and rough and just like he'd always wanted to—he wasn't sure he'd ever get another chance. His mind was still reeling when he felt Sherlock's hands on his zip. "Jesus, Sherlock, are you high or something?" He couldn't figure out why else he'd be here, let alone practically throwing himself at him.

"No," he said, a little breathlessly. "You've made it clear that's not an option, so I need something else to stem my boredom."

"You just call me interesting?" he said, mostly to himself. Sherlock's hands hadn't stopped for a second, and Greg was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate.

"I'll tell you in five minutes."

"You've been sleeping with the wrong blokes, mate," Greg replied with a laugh. "Five minutes isn't nearly long enough to take _you_ apart. Not properly."

"Prove me wrong."

Greg grabbed a handful of hair and gave it a sharp tug as he kissed him again.

* * *

Sherlock walked in like he owned the place and handed Greg the takeaway bag with an air of distaste.

"Your eating habits are appalling. This is the third time this week you've ordered curry."

"Says the man who used to live on cocaine. You having any?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and eyed the container like it was a threat. "No, thank you."

"Suit yourself." He'd given up trying to get him to eat, unless Sherlock looked like he really needed it. He scooped some out onto a plate and went to the fridge for a beer. "Anything to drink?" By now, Sherlock knew to help himself, but it was only polite to ask.

"No. I'm not here to have a drink."

"I know exactly why you're here, and I'm not doing a damned thing about it until I've had some food."

Sherlock smiled, and knelt next to him on the floor.

* * *

That first night, after Sherlock's somewhat bizarre attempt to get his consent, Sherlock went straight for Greg's cock. It struck Greg as odd at first—he'd expected someone as self-centred as Sherlock to _want_ all the attention, not give it, but it made an odd sort of sense. Most people, when faced with someone as striking as Sherlock, would fall all over themselves to please him—Molly was proof of that. Although Greg would have loved that sort of attention, he could see where it would get predictable. Boring.

Perhaps Sherlock wanted to please _them._

Bossing the arrogant sod around and taking what he wanted might be exactly what Sherlock needed Greg to do.

Sherlock finished undoing Greg's trousers, leaving them around his thighs, and removed his own clothes. Greg openly stared as Sherlock stood naked and hard in front of him. Sherlock was thick and gorgeous—the sight made _Greg _want to drop to his knees, but he fought the urge. He also fought his urge to be polite. Somehow, he didn't think that was what Sherlock was after.

"Mm, very nice. I can see why you act so fucking entitled. Are you as good at sucking cock as you are at annoying people?" Greg waited for him to stalk off in a huff, but the hunger in Sherlock's eyes didn't diminish. He'd half-expected to be running out the door after him by now, apologising and asking him to come back, regardless of what it would do to his own ego, but it seemed that Mr High-and-Mighty got off on being told what to do—at least in this capacity.

"You tell me," Sherlock said, and dropped to his knees on the thinning carpet. Greg groaned as Sherlock's lips closed around him; this couldn't possibly be real—a passed-out blissful dream after one too many beers at the pub, perhaps. He grabbed on to Sherlock's hair; it was soft and smooth between his fingers. It certainly felt real, and that mouth was fucking incredible. He glanced down and lost himself in the mesmerising sight of Sherlock's head bobbing up and down on his cock.

"God, you're good at that."

Sherlock replied with an appreciative sort of moan but didn't pause for a second. He used one of his hands to shove Greg's trousers further down his legs and cupped his balls.

"Mm, good boy," Greg murmured, mostly to himself.

Sherlock's demeanour changed almost immediately; he groaned loudly in approval and sucked even more enthusiastically.

It took a second for the realisation to slot into place. _Oh. Someone has a few daddy issues. _Well, as long as he didn't end up playing psychiatrist, he didn't mind pandering to that every now and then. He wondered how Sherlock felt about discipline.

He'd been polite as far as blow-job etiquette was concerned; as tempting as it was, he hadn't crammed his cock down that long throat of his. But when Sherlock grabbed his arse and started practically impaling himself, he decided to help him along. He tightened his hands into fists around his hair and fucked his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a blow-job this good. He was pretty sure it was 'never'.

"You want this? Yeah?" he asked, barely able to catch his own breath. He wasn't sure how Sherlock was managing it.

Sherlock didn't bother responding—he just kept sucking him. He had him coming in no time. He swallowed Greg down and cleaned him off, and then he smiled up at him and licked his swollen lips. His expression was far too smug. "I can take anything you want to give me," he said.

That sounded like a challenge. The idea of Sherlock giving up control—to him, at that—did unspeakable things to him. Greg pulled his trousers back up. If Sherlock wanted interesting, he'd give him interesting. Hell, he'd give him _'fucking twisted'_ and see how far he ran.

"Your safeword is 'Anderson'," Greg said—the choice of words almost a joke, but not quite. He doubted Sherlock wanted some sort of drawn-out negotiation. God knows _he_ didn't. He'd just had one hell of an orgasm, and Sherlock was on his knees in front of him, looking debauched and needy. Who wanted to waste time with words? "Any questions?"

Sherlock looked up at him and shook his head, his eyes wide—excited. His cock, too—neither of them had laid a hand on it, but he was rock hard.

"Good," Greg said.

Sherlock made a move to stand, but Greg placed a hand firmly on his shoulder and kept him kneeling.

"Did I say you could get up?"

"No," Sherlock said, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

_Definitely on the right path._

"No, what?"

"No, sir."

"So you'll just drop to your knees for anyone, huh? Suck them off like a cheap whore?"

"Not a _cheap_ whore, no," Sherlock said with a grin that dared Greg to do something about it.

Greg reached down and grabbed his hair and pulled it. Hard. He seemed to like that. "Don't worry—you'll feel like a cheap whore by the time I'm done with you," he said, his smile all teeth and undisguised lust.

Keeping hold of his hair, he pulled Sherlock to his feet. He scanned his face for any sort of complaint, but all he saw was anticipation. He almost wished he hadn't let Sherlock finish the best blow-job of his life a few minutes ago, because he really wanted to fuck him right now, but this would be almost as good. "Naughty boys need to be taught a lesson."

Sherlock licked his lips and started to breathe more quickly.

_Oh yeah. Definitely right about the discipline and the daddy issues. _He led him over to the sofa by his hair, Sherlock stumbling awkwardly behind him. "Let's see if I can beat some sense into you."

He sat on the edge of the sofa and pulled Sherlock over his lap. He hadn't counted on Sherlock's erection pressing insistently against his thigh, and damned if that wasn't distracting as all hell. He had to work for a few seconds to even get his train of thought back. "When was the last time anyone punished you?"

"I don't need punishing," Sherlock said defiantly, and made movements that seemed like he was trying to escape… except that Greg wasn't holding him down, and all Sherlock had to do was stand up if he wanted to.

_Oh._ He placed his palm firmly at the base of Sherlock's spine, and Sherlock struggled more forcefully, now that there was something to fight against. Greg smiled in appreciation—for someone famed for his horrible communication skills, Sherlock was doing quite well. "Stop squirming, or I'll get my bloody handcuffs."

That only made him squirm more.

"God, you're just gagging for it, aren't you?" Greg landed a hard swat on his behind. "You need this, believe me. Hasn't anyone given you a good spanking before?" He hit him again, his hand feeling the impact as much as Sherlock's arse, leaving them both red and stinging.

After a few minutes, Sherlock started to writhe against Greg's leg in ways that had nothing to do with the timing of the blows.

Greg gave a small chuckle of disbelief. "Well, look at that. My cheap little whore is a pain slut, too. Hm?"

Sherlock didn't reply, but stopped moving.

"C'mon. Admit it, or I'll send you out of here with nothing but your coat and a raging hard-on. I'll make you come back for your clothes later."

"Yes."

"Yes, what? Yes, you like the sting of my palm so much that you're rutting against my thigh?"

"Something like that," Sherlock said, sounding like he didn't really _want_ to admit it. He actually seemed a bit embarrassed by it.

"Oh, I'm going to have so much fun with you," Greg said, and he meant every word of it. He raked his fingernails across Sherlock's arse—still a light pink from the spanking. Sherlock bit back a needy sound. "And we're going to find out just how much punishment you enjoy. Not tonight, though."

Sherlock turned his head back and looked up at him with a disappointed expression. Greg wondered just how many kinks Sherlock had and how many he'd get to—well, 'exploit' wasn't the right word, was it? Not if they were both into it. Besides, Sherlock had come to him.

He stood up, helping Sherlock to his feet at the same time. Greg almost wished he were twenty again—what he wouldn't give to be hard and fucking Sherlock into the mattress right now. Still, having Sherlock fuck _him_ wouldn't be half bad, either—he just wasn't sure how if it would fit Sherlock's definition of 'interesting'. Greg wanted to make sure this was a repeat event—with him as the lucky recipient.

Sherlock stood there awkwardly, naked and not sure what to do with himself.

On a whim, Greg said, "I want you kneeling at all times, unless I tell you otherwise."

A look of relief crossed Sherlock's face as he dropped to his knees. It almost seemed to calm him.

Greg didn't much care whether Sherlock stood or not—until the moment he was on the floor. Seeing him on his knees, submissive just for the sake of it, stirred a feeling of dominance he'd not really expected: a sexual thrill of its own—not just playing along with Sherlock's need for 'interesting'. The height advantage magnified the effect, and gave him one hell of a view—Sherlock: stark naked, a light flush on his face that extended down to his chest, and that wonderfully thick cock of his.

The more he thought about letting Sherlock fuck him, the better it sounded. He hadn't had sex in ages, and his arse almost ached with anticipation. He imagined how it would feel, sliding in there, filling him up. _God. _

Greg tried not to stare too much, but it was difficult—who'd have thought he'd have Sherlock, naked and kneeling on his floor? If you'd told him twelve hours ago that Sherlock Holmes would give him the best blow-job of his life, he would have laughed.

He dragged himself away from the view long enough to get to his coat. He went through his pockets, looking for his handcuffs, but they were empty.

"They're in mine," Sherlock said, sounding a bit smug. "I stole them from you earlier today."

"Oh you did, did you? Cheeky bastard." _Damn. I don't want to reinforce negative behaviour._ "That's a shame."

"Why?"

"Well, I was going to cuff you to the bed and bounce on your cock 'til you burst, but—"

"Oh, come on, Lestrade, I take them all the time—"

Greg silenced him by raising an eyebrow, holding the stern expression for a few seconds. There were so many different things he wanted to do to the gorgeous, arrogant, surprisingly submissive bastard. He wondered how much he could get away with. He walked over to him again—right in front of him. "All right, be a good boy and apologise to me, then."

Sherlock undid Greg's trousers and took his soft cock into his mouth—all of it.

The wet heat made Greg's eyes roll back in his head. It felt delicious. Nothing short of a defibrillator would bring his cock back from the dead in the next half hour, but having a soft, wet mouth around it felt amazing all the same. Sherlock. On his knees. Trying to do the impossible. For him. God, but it was heady stuff. Talk about _control._

He let Sherlock work at it for a few minutes—sucking, laving, and fondling Greg's soft cock in a desperate attempt to get him hard, hoping to atone for stealing the handcuffs. Then he stepped back. Sherlock whined.

"Don't worry; you can't fight biology. Full marks for effort, though," Greg said, giving him a smile. "Come on. You don't get to fuck me, but I'm not going to leave you like that all night." Sherlock was still hard.

Greg led him to the kitchen, and clicked one of the cuffs around his wrist and the other around the leg of the table.

"Back in a sec. Don't wander off," he said with a chuckle. He went to the bedroom and got his other set of handcuffs: the ones he sometimes used to cuff one arm to the bed while he got himself off: Sherlock wasn't the only one with a taste for submission. Perhaps if this became a regular thing, they'd be able to switch every now and then.

Returning to the kitchen, he held up the second pair of cuffs with a wicked smile. He pulled Sherlock's free hand behind his back and cuffed them together. _There._ Now Sherlock could stand there comfortably, but he wasn't going anywhere or doing _anything_ for himself. Perfect.

Sherlock looked nervous. "What are you going to do to me like this?"

"Nothing. I'm going to have a beer and watch you standing naked in my kitchen, cuffed to the table."

"Really?"

"No, not really, you berk. Although when I say it out loud, it doesn't sound like a bad plan. Do you want a drink?"

Sherlock frowned and moved his wrists.

"Do you honestly think I don't remember that? I asked if you wanted a drink. Focus."

"Yes, please."

He smiled at the 'please' and got a beer out of the fridge. After taking the cap off, he had a nice swig and waited to see if Sherlock would say anything about the missing bottle. He didn't.

"So," Greg said, "when was the last time you sat on the couch with a beer and had a wank?"

Sherlock blinked at him in stunned silence.

"C'mon, when?"

"I've… never done that," he said with a measured tone, and perhaps a little distaste.

"Well, it's your lucky night, because I'm going to teach you how."

Sherlock seemed perplexed by the entire notion.

Greg picked up the bottle of beer and rubbed the cold glass against one of Sherlock's nipples. He jumped, scraping the table across the floor.

"Shh. Neighbours," said Greg. "Still thirsty?"

He nodded.

"Open your mouth, then."

Sherlock did—without tipping his head.

"Are you slow, or do you want me to force your head back?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked into a smile.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Greg said and fisted his hair, pulling his head back with a quick jerk. "There you go. One day I'm going to come all over your pretty face like this. Would you like that?"

Sherlock moaned and tried to nod his head.

"Yeah, I though you would, you little slut. Now, take this slow—I don't want you choking on it." He held the bottle to Sherlock's mouth. "God, seeing your lips around that bottle makes me want to shove my cock back in there." Slowly, he tipped it up—just enough to let him have a little, then he let go of his hair so he could swallow properly.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"What, not good enough for you?"

"Not what I usually drink."

"Which is?"

"Scotch."

"Right," Greg said. "Well, I don't have any Scotch, so you're going to learn how to drink _beer_ and get off. I'm sure you can figure out how to do it with Scotch at home. No. Wait. Bring the Scotch next time and you can practise here."

"Who said there's going to be a next time?" Sherlock said.

"You did, by not walking out of here half an hour ago. All you have to say is 'Anderson' and it's over, but I think you're enjoying yourself. You certainly _look_ like you're enjoying yourself." He ran his finger—icy cold from holding the bottle—down his chest. "Sorry, that might be a little cold," he said, knowing exactly what he was doing and not sorry in the slightest. "Here, why don't you warm it up for me before we get started?"

Sherlock leaned in and took Greg's finger in his mouth, sucking on the tip of it gently, then he looked up at him through long eyelashes and started _doing things_ to it with his tongue—things Greg was sure shouldn't be nearly as arousing as they were.

"I think you need another one," Greg said, pushing another finger inside. Sherlock really got into that, sucking harder and hollowing out his cheeks in an effort to please him.

"Such a good boy," Greg said as he reluctantly withdrew his fingers and stood back to take a good look. Sherlock, normally cool and controlled, looked desperate and undone. His lovely cock jutted out, begging for attention. Greg was dying for a taste. Perhaps if you sucked someone off—just a bit—while they were handcuffed to a table, it wouldn't be construed as submissive. He smiled. He didn't really care how Sherlock construed it at this point: he was going to do what he wanted.

"Not a sound," he said, with a warning lift of his eyebrows, and dropped to his knees in front of him. It was quite a view. Sherlock's foreskin had fully retracted over the large, rounded head of his penis, and he'd been hard for so long that the tip of it glistened. Greg ran his hand across Sherlock's neatly-trimmed groin and under his balls as he took in every detail of him. His cock was just how he liked them—thick and not overly long, and this close, he just _smelled_ of sex. It made Greg's mouth ache.

He grasped the shaft of it and pressed his lips against it, mouth closed. He slowly pushed himself onto it, letting the fullness of his cock push his lips apart and violate him. The heat and the weight of it against his tongue and the stretch of his jaw—God, he'd missed this, being on his knees, giving head. He started to suck, and Sherlock moaned above him. Greg slapped him on the arse to get him to be quiet, but it had the opposite effect. He eventually shut up, and Greg lost himself for a while in the sweaty glory of it. The only thing better would be to have Sherlock forcing him, fucking his face like a madman. Then again, if Sherlock had a kink for pleasing other people, perhaps Greg could order him to do it sometime.

After a while, he remembered he was supposed to be 'teaching' Sherlock how to masturbate—although Sherlock seemed quite happy with the current state of affairs. He pulled off with a wet 'slurp' and wiped the saliva from his chin with a huge smile. "Well, I think you should be wet enough now, then."

Sherlock snorted. "Whatever you need to tell yourself…"

"Oh, I don't need an excuse—I've been dying for a taste ever since you took your pants off." He stood next to him and grasped Sherlock's slick cock in his hand. "Now, is it that you've never done this on the couch with a beer, or are you just rubbish at getting yourself off?"

"Let's presume the latter; I'd like to see what you have to 'teach' me."

Greg wrapped his hand around Sherlock's throat and gave it a light but threatening squeeze. "I'll teach you some manners, for one. Now behave."

Sherlock nodded, his previously smug expression replaced with nervous excitement.

The chains on the handcuffs rattled as Greg pushed him back against the table. "Well then, being nice and wet like this is a good start." He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's prick, giving it a slow tug. When he started moving his hand along its length, Sherlock gripped the table and tilted his hips into it.

"Thought you'd like that, you little tart."

He started out slowly but soon built up to stroking him mercilessly, his fist guiding Sherlock towards a peak Greg could almost see approaching.

"Not yet," Greg said. He let go of Sherlock's prick and grabbed the beer bottle. He clapped his other hand over Sherlock's mouth and shoved the cold bottle against Sherlock's groin.

Sherlock stumbled backwards against the table and howled.

Before Sherlock could think of anything coherent to say, Greg was stroking his cock back to full hardness.

Sherlock looked dazed.

Greg shrugged. "You said you wanted 'interesting'."

"And that's something you normally do when you masturbate?" Sherlock asked, gasping.

"No, but I have to teach you some endurance. When I let you fuck me, I don't want you coming the minute you get your cock inside. We can save that lesson for another time, though. I'm sure you can get it right if you practice."

Sherlock gave him a half-smile.

"All right, let's see if you've learnt anything today. Which hand do you usually use?"

"Right… um, I think."

"Jesus, you really _don't_ do this much, do you?"

"I've always considered it beneath me," Sherlock said.

"Explains a lot," Greg muttered as he reconfigured the handcuffs, leaving Sherlock's left hand attached to the table. "Okay. You have five minutes. If you don't come before then, I'm going sit you down and teach you the rules of football, and there _will_ be a test afterwards."

Sherlock looked horrified. "I won't stand for that. I'll just leave."

"Your choice," Greg said, sincerely hoping it wouldn't be. "C'mon. Time's wasting." He looked at the clock on the oven. "Go."

Sherlock wrapped his hand around his cock and started pumping, his face a study in concentration.

Greg looked at the time as he started to get close—he was only two minutes in. Sherlock was too engrossed in his own pleasure to notice him picking up the cold beer bottle again. This time, Greg pressed it right up against his cock and balls, holding his arse with his other hand to keep him from pulling away. Sherlock wailed in frustration, and Greg almost felt sorry for him.

"Please, no…" Sherlock begged.

"Three minutes to go. I hear Arsenal is doing really well this year," he added, with a wicked grin.

Sherlock worked furiously to bring his softened cock back to hardness.

"Two…"

"Shut. UP. I'm trying to concentrate."

"What, you don't want to hear how good you looked with your mouth wrapped around my cock? Best blow-job I've ever had. Makes me want to fuck your throat raw, you little slut."

Sherlock grunted in approval and closed his eyes. "Never mind. More."

Greg smiled. He'd never pegged Sherlock for dirty talk, but he wasn't complaining; he enjoyed it too. "Perhaps you'd rather I tie you down and fuck you. Slowly. I can go for ages, you know—so long you'd be begging me to let you come, and when I finally do, I'll watch you shoot all over that gorgeous stomach…"

Apparently that was enough, because Sherlock did just that.

Greg glanced at the clock: Sherlock had done it. "Damn. I was sort of hoping to teach you about the offside rule," he said with a grin.

Sherlock looked at him with a dazed expression as the reward chemicals hit his brain.

"Good job, though. You learn fast."

Sherlock just sort of nodded.

Greg undid the handcuffs and offered him a tea-towel to wipe himself off. Sherlock looked at it with mild distaste. "Don't worry, it's clean, and I'll wash it afterwards. I'm not a complete savage."

"Thanks," he said, taking it. He looked around nervously—not an expression Greg was used to seeing on his face. "I suppose I should be going, then."

"You don't have to. When was the last time you ate?" He sort of hoped Sherlock wouldn't leave—it was nice having someone else around.

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip, and the fact that he had to think about it told Greg all he needed to know.

"You get dressed and I'll order some takeaway."

Sherlock still looked nervous.

"Look, it's just food. We don't have to 'talk' about any of this, in case you're worried."

"All right."

They got halfway through their fish and chips before Sherlock said anything.

"I wasn't bored."

Greg just smiled and had another chip.

* * *

If you want to find me on tumblr, I'm at "chasingriversong"! Also, my username on AO3 is chasingriver. I prefer to publish my stories there, since they don't discriminate against explicit content.


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